


Wronged-Again Whimper

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, essentially throne sex with a twist, it gets quite nasty toward the end, please do heed the warnings, plus a whole lot of kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor is capricious; this Mairon knows all too well. A lingering glance could be construed as something it is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wronged-Again Whimper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theeventualwinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/gifts).



> Credit for the title justly belongs to W. H. Auden.

Too long did Mairon's eyes stray among the angles of the throne. It was hard to avert his gaze: years uncounted by all but him had been trodden into dust, yet still the throne had remained bare; his lord's will, pulsing from living rock, had flickered into faintness. And even though that power now throbbed over his skin, curling into bone with a murmur of things honeyed and lewd, the memory scooped a little hollow out of his chest. 

He knew Melkor was watching; but he was nonetheless too slow in casting his eyes to the floor, and the Vala's footsteps clicked to a halt behind him. Anticipation crinkled up his back and he twitched with the impetus to turn around, but all such thoughts were scrapped: he had not been instructed to move. And then charred fingers were knotting at his waist, crushing him into his master's bulk, and Melkor's voice was rolling in his ear: ''Eyes are such treacherous structures: many a thing the swiftest of glances can betray. Tell me, what is it about my throne that has so riveted your attention? Do you long still to command from it in my stead?'' 

Only the barest hint of peril threaded through the Vala's voice; his touch upon his lieutenant did not bear the harshness of reprimand. Yet something small and mangled still spasmed in Mairon's chest, and despite himself his reply blistered over his tongue: ''My lord, it was _never_ like that—'' 

Fingers tightened then, and he knew they were dotting his flesh crimson even through the fabric of his tunic. One hand found his jaw, soldering sharply to his cheeks, and whatever he had meant to say was severed into a squeak. 

''That is not an adequate answer,'' Melkor drawled, and his lieutenant shivered as something dark and devious unfurled in his voice. ''Impudence does not render you fetching, Mairon.'' 

The Maia tightened his jaw to prevent the sliver of hurt in his chest from goring past his lips. His master's thumb ghosted over his mouth, and with the tacit praise of that caress for a moment he felt he might be able to swallow it down; but then all touch slithered from him, and shame trickled through his veins as the Vala's words tipped down the side of his neck like vicious daggers: ''Nothing to declare? How unusual, Mairon. You did seem so eager to bare your heart.'' 

The syllables piling up in his chest were not what his lord wished to hear; the emotion churning within him would not allow him to rearrange them into the smooth neutrality expected of a lieutenant. So he let silence droop that much more heavily over the hall and willed himself not to shrink away when the Vala's breath stirred the fine strands of hair at his temple. 

''No?'' Melkor prodded, he purred low in the Maia's ear; ''if in this you are recalcitrant, then in things more carnal you shall obey me. Bare yet more, Mairon, and you may yet rise from your abasement.'' 

Crimson splotched high over Mairon's cheeks as he divested himself of his clothing, as he so starkly pictured the glee twisted over his master's lips; yet he obeyed, and he trammeled all protest even as Melkor took him by the hand, steering him up the steps of the dais. Against the arm of the throne the Vala guided him; with a hand pressed between his shoulder blades Melkor forced him to bend, bidding him grasp the opposing armrest. 

''You will be quiet and you will be still,'' his master murmured, lingering by his side; a nail scratched at the gulping arteries in his neck, it traced tiny shudders over his nape, and at last Mairon nodded his head into the metal seat of the throne. Melkor pulled idle fingers through his hair in something that tasted too much like rust to be praise. "See that you keep to your word,'' he warned, tangling a hand into his lieutenant's roots until the Maia buried his wince into the metal beneath his cheek. 

Seconds needled past during which the pressure upon his scalp did not recede. It was only when Mairon jerked his head ever so slightly, away from the grip upon his hair, that Melkor at last relented; amid the throaty jostle of a chuckle the Vala swept away toward the near end of the hall, well beyond his lieutenant's line of sight. The Maia's breath quavered out of him as the pounding pain across his scalp mellowed; he pressed himself more firmly into the throne until he felt sure every ridge and dip upon the metal seat would be imprinted into his cheek. And in good stead it stood him, for he did not startle as the Vala returned with a whisper of leather up the back of his thigh. Well he was acquainted with the riding crop poised stark and ruthless in his master's hand; well he remembered the sickly bruises splintered into his flesh. Mairon clamped his tongue between his teeth to stopper the whimper clotting in his throat. Yet where he expected a clap and a crackle of agony, the leather thong merely laved at his skin, trailing up between his legs in teasing little laps that almost had him squirming. 

''Spread your legs,'' Melkor demanded, rutting the whip in the crevice between his thighs. But once more his master deemed him too tardy in his obedience: just as his legs began to splay, the whip cleaved into his inner thigh. The gasp tottering out of him was involuntary; the flinch of flesh away from the sting of leather he could not rein in. 

''I believe I have issued a command,'' the Vala chastised, and slowly, capriciously he crushed the thong of the whip to the welt ridging Mairon's skin. It did little to soothe; for instead Melkor ground it against already sore flesh, forcing his thighs wider still, and his grip upon the armrest grew white-knuckled. 

The next blow striped across his buttocks, the pain of it seemingly slicing into his skin; distressed flesh reddened, swelling into a weal that throbbed as an open wound. Mairon choked down the scream ramming against his teeth. He hunched forward out of squalling instinct, and behind him the fitful tap of the riding crop against his master's boot set an infernal countdown: his muscles loosened with all the staccato motion of a clockwork mechanism. 

Again and again and again the whip fell: it whooshed into the junction between the curve of his ass and the back of his thigh; it speckled just lower before he could even cram enough air into his lungs. The sting hummed over his flesh, breath bleated against his teeth, and he huddled low as the riding crop swatted anew over skin aglow with welts. The savage force of the blow rocked him forward; he could not quite halt the steadying plunge of his hand to the seat of the throne. 

Mairon realized he had been whimpering only when fingers latched to his hair, when the whip clattered to the floor. Distressed noises tapered off into a strangled sputter as Melkor hoisted his head upward, and the Vala's clothed form sidled up against tormented flesh. ''Though on my throne you are sprawled, today I ask no more of you than to obey—is that truly beyond the scope of your abilities, Mairon?'' 

Through the gallop of his heart he spewed his reply, and it was too late to throttle the despairing earnestness in his tone: ''No, my lord, I can—'' 

''Enough,'' his master ground on, striking the Maia's buttock with an open palm so that pain prickled into a quiver and a gleam along the darkening bruises there. ''You have already proven your failure.'' From within his robes the Vala retrieved a gag, a sphere of polished steel strung between leather straps; almost jauntily it swayed before Mairon's face, yet he did not part his lips. And as seconds ticked past and his defiance ossified beneath his skin, the Vala clicked his tongue; he fitted the gag closer until its rounded metal surface steamed against his lieutenant's lips. ''This is your chance for redress, and I suggest you take it.'' 

Mairon felt his master's power crackling down his sternum into blood and sinew alike, but he would have rebuffed the command, his lips would have remained pursed as though stitched with wire, had it not been for the curl of genuine vexation in the Vala's voice; only one outcome could such displeasure incite, and to its violent clutches the Maia had no aspiration. His jaw loosened, and Melkor lodged the metal orb behind his teeth; the leather straps gnawed at his cheeks as the buckle was fastened more tightly than mere necessity would prescribe. With a faint keen of impotence muffled and lost behind the gag, Mairon rested his head against the seat of the throne and made to grasp the armrest once again. 

''Nay,'' Melkor commanded of a sudden, snatching his wrists before muscles could be animated into motion. ''You are incapable of self-restraint, little one. Have I not bidden you keep still? Are you not my lieutenant? Reap your just deserts then, for this I would have you learn: you are mine in all things.'' 

His wrists were trussed together behind his back with a length of rope, and the huddle of emotion in his chest gave him no choice but to let it happen; his arms were levered high, higher, until he would not have been able to lift his face from the metal seat had he indeed dared. To one of the stabbing spires of the throne the Vala tied the rope, and his muscles were immobilized aloft and quaking. 

''There,'' Melkor cooed, grazing ashen fingertips down his side as though in admiration. Between his lieutenant's parted thighs he insinuated himself; he aligned his boots to the arches of Mairon's feet, nudging him all the wider. Fingers scratched at the Maia's hip, with his free hand the Vala reached down to gently tug at his sac, and the shock of the touch jolted up Mairon's cock. Yet too soon his master's caresses ceased, and Mairon did not at first grasp his intent—he merely whined out his need and tipped his hips backward into blackened hands. But Melkor did not heed his desire; instead he firmly tucked his bollocks between thumb and forefinger, and slid the whip into his palm once more. The first lick of leather against such tender flesh set Mairon jerking; he writhed against the armrest, but to no avail: his master's grip was inexorable. 

''Move if you like,'' the Vala smirked, slapping the flat of the riding crop against his sac, ''but stillness I would deem the wiser choice.'' 

Mairon's teeth rang with how vigorously he clamped his jaw shut over the steel gag as the second blow percussed agony into every nerve ending. Out of reflex his thighs made to close, yet Melkor was there, propping him open, and he could do nothing but futilely yank at his bonds. Tears clumped along his eyelashes with each fresh strike: the intensity of such abuse crescendoed until the Maia felt heat near scorch from his nethers. 

''Hush,'' Melkor soothed, softening the brush of leather against flesh. ''Will you be a good boy for me now?'' And though the appellation twisted and snapped like bitter metal in his chest, swiftly he nodded, he willed his shaking muscles to slacken. 

''Both pain and pleasure are within my jurisdiction to impart,'' the Vala mused as he reached for the vial of oil snug beneath his robes; he slicked the cleft of Mairon's ass, indolently tracing a fingertip over his entrance. ''It is your choice which you incur, little Maia. Yet you have taken your punishment, and I would not have such sweet submission go unrewarded.'' 

Mairon did not need to see the smile glowing its unhallowed glow over his lord's lips; he could hear it in his voice, dripping smooth and rich as honey, indulgent and too untamed around the corners. Two of the Vala's fingertips dipped inside him, and he moaned with the stretch, twitching backward to deepen the contact. Melkor hummed his approval, prodding yet deeper, tilting against the one spot that had Mairon arching, that had him canting back into his master though his arms burned with the strain. A slow rhythm the Vala decided upon, fucking him with his fingers; the Maia's hips rubbed forward over the armrest of the throne with each thrust, fragile skin ruptured into abrasions, yet Melkor's fingers but teased where he wanted them firm. 

A mewl bubbled upon his tongue as with a desperate little thrust of the hips he made to push back against his master; but the endeavor was cut short as Melkor finally obliged: in a brutal wrench of the fingers that bodily slammed Mairon into the throne he scraped against his prostate and held that pressure. Waves of delight crashed through his pelvis, and to their beat Mairon rolled his hips, panting into the gag as those sensations reached a peak and would go no further. Bliss pulsed up his length, fluid dripped from his tip to smear stark and white and shameful over the dark metal of the throne; and still Melkor kneaded at that lambent cluster of nerve endings until imploding constellations seemed to be mapped across each patch of Mairon's skin. 

_Please_ , he would have keened, he would have begged, had the gag not hindered all capacity for speech. His cock drooled steadily as need clawed at him; and though the stimulation was too raw, too hurting, he rutted against the arm of the throne and almost missed the Vala's laugh darkening the air. 

''Do you want to come?'' Melkor tempted as one hand slithered beneath the Maia to clutch teasingly at his hip. Fervidly Mairon nodded; the gag could not wholly smother his cry as charred fingers traced the latticework of swollen veins over his length. He thrashed, he threw himself into the touch as his master began to fuck him anew, with hard, precise prods of his fingers that set desire screeching between his hipbones. 

The glimmer of arousal quivered within him, overwhelming as a heat wave: he felt his muscles seize and then he was plummeting, every thought washed blank as pleasure frothed within him. For how long he quaked out his rapture he could not say; slowly, ever so slowly, he was layered back into awareness; air hissed through the interstice between gag and teeth. Yet discomfort began to poke and thud, for the Vala's fingers were still upon him, inside him, and he wriggled his hips to dislodge the touch; hopelessly the attempt was aborted as Melkor scissored his fingers, coaxing him open even further. Mairon groaned, bodily shifting against the throne, catching the piercings studded through his nipples upon the metal in a sharp tug; for the first time he wrenched at his bonds in earnest, and cool relief streamed through him as he felt Melkor stop in his ministrations. The Vala's fingers sloped out of him, yet he did not step away—Mairon's heart sank as he heard the clink of a belt. 

The slickened tip of his master's cock slipped over his entrance, and it was with scurrilous ease that the Vala sheathed himself within his lieutenant. Melkor sought naught but his own delight; the swing of his hips hammered Mairon into the arm of the throne, pestling bruises beneath his skin. The slide and whisper of the Vala's robes against the tender flesh of his backside lurched through him in sharp bolts of pain, and Melkor's fingers tugging him into hardness again sparked only hurt. But he was bound, near immobilized between his master's bulk and the callous sturdiness of the throne; he could do no more than jam his frown into the metal seat, bite at the gag to steel himself. 

''Will you come for me again?'' Melkor murmured, he panted, and the ravening snap of his hips ripped a mewl out of his Maia. Refusal stuck stale to Mairon's tongue; disapproval wheezed past the gag as a noise strangled and forlorn. Sensation was saddled between pleasure and pain, firing through nerves that felt obscenely exposed, as his master's length implacably slammed into him, as his fingers pounded a merciless, twisting rhythm up his cock. ''Come now,'' the Vala chided, dragging a thumb through the tiny puddle of moisture at his slit; ''you have no right to coyness.'' 

Mairon's climax was wrung out of him in a sudden boil of pleasure; it contorted through him, a coarse, juddering sensation that soon dispersed into simmering hurt. All too distinctly he felt his master spill within him; the excruciating stretch persisted as Melkor pressed himself flush against his ass, remaining motionless as his Maia writhed beneath him. Upon a whim the Vala reached around, pinching a nipple scraped sore against the seat of the throne and plucking at the piercing threaded through it. Mairon squirmed away from the touch, whimpers rattled behind the gag, for in truth it was too much; it was too painful, nerves shrieked in the wake of overstimulation, and at long last Melkor retreated with a too-gentle brush of fingers down his ribcage, a chuckle that would have felt less like thorns embedded in his heart had it borne more cruelty. 

The Maia panted in sickening relief as the Vala stretched to uncoil the rope from the steeple of the throne, as fingers deftly freed his wrists. His arms drooped loose and shaking, and protectively he curled them underneath him. Fractionally he shifted his head to allow Melkor to draw the gag from him; and where there might have been revulsion when his master grasped his waist and helped him into a standing position, there was only gratitude. 

He did not meet his lord's glance; instead he lowered his eyes to his wrists and gingerly rubbed at the vermilion lines cleaved into them. A minuscule gasp skipped out of him as Melkor cupped his cheek within his palm; with care his thumb swiped over his lips, wiping away saliva, and then the Vala was gentling him into a kiss. The tiny sound that chipped from him was lost in the press of bodies, and he did not care whether it materialized in welcome or protest as he folded his fingers over his master's skull and let carnality crowd out all thought.  



End file.
